


With what ceaseless warmth

by InvertedPhantasmagoria



Category: Bleach
Genre: Dubious Morality, Fear Play, Food Issues, Gen, Headcanon, Hollows are miserable, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Restraints, Touch-Starved, Trust Issues, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Yandere, instincts, mild xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28792149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvertedPhantasmagoria/pseuds/InvertedPhantasmagoria
Summary: “You’re awake.”Grimmjow snaps to something closer to alertness. A strange voice just feet away makes him blink and fight to focus. And when he does...He’s in a room that he doesn’t recognize. The lack of all-consuming white makes it immediately apparent that he’s not in Las Noches. Thehumansitting much too close in front of him makes that even more clear.“Th... Th’ fuck ‘re you...?” he slurs.“You’re awake,” you say again. “That’s what matters here.”
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73





	With what ceaseless warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hi!! o3o This is a quick fic written for an art-trade with someone who's drawing a character for me. The prompt was basically for a yandere-ish Reader who captured Grimmjow and is intent on giving him pets and affection... not torture like he expects. It's fluffy, but also dark, and is a big ol' dump of a lot of my Hollow headcanons. Reader is also very creepy. XD Enjoy!

It’s rare for Hollows to sleep deeply. A life of always fearing that you’ll be devoured while your back is turned and your belly is unguarded is enough to make even the ones stuffed into human skins more than a little wary. 

And Grimmjow is no different. He rests when he has to, when his body will all but collapse if he doesn’t. Putting off sleep until he’ll be  _ weak  _ if he doesn’t let the physical need take over is just second-nature for his kind. The out-of-reach nightmares that haunt him when his eyes are closed are no better; the feeling that he can almost, almost remember... something. 

This is why waking up under the fog of a long, deep sleep disturbs him so greatly. For once, there’s no pang of vanishing, claw-deep dreams. There’s just a slow, heavy feeling that makes it hard to think, hard to move, and hard to process both where he is and what happened to get him there. 

Exhaustion weighs heavy in Grimmjow’s limbs. He blinks a couple of times, but his vision doesn’t clear. He tries to move one arm, but the only response his body gives is a quick twitch of his fingers. There’s a quick sense of  _ wrong  _ settling over him, but exactly why isn’t seeming to connect. Every thought is as slow as sticky, drying blood, and nothing will come through as it should. Grimmjow makes a low, growling noise and tries to shake the weariness out of his head. All it does is make the blurred world spin. 

“You’re awake.”

Grimmjow snaps to something closer to alertness. A strange voice just feet away makes him blink and fight to focus. And when he does...

He’s in a room that he doesn’t recognize. The lack of all-consuming white makes it immediately apparent that he’s not in Las Noches. The  _ human  _ sitting much too close in front of him makes that even more clear. 

“Th... Th’ fuck ‘re you...?” he slurs. 

“You’re awake,” you say again. “That’s what matters here.”

Grimmjow tries to make sense of what you’re saying. It doesn’t work. The only thing that’s quickly coming together is that he’s  _ tied up.  _ As in, bound with his wrists behind his back, his ankles tightly together, and a fucking  _ collar  _ leashing him to a bolted-down bed. What’s also becoming apparent is that he can’t muster up much strength at all. The chains should be easily breakable. Instead, he can still barely make a finger twitch. 

“Wh-Wha...?” Saliva pools against his tongue. He swallows. His vision blurs once again, and Grimmjow  _ longs  _ to spit some venomous threat. 

“You’re mine now,” is the next thing that comes out of your mouth. “All mine. You won’t be leaving me.” There’s a strange half-smile settled upon your lips. Even though you have hardly any reiatsu to speak of, Grimmjow gets a very bad feeling from that sight alone. The atmosphere you give off is the same kind as something that could turn him into  _ prey.  _

This is bad. He’s drugged. He has to be. Whatever’s making it so he can barely move isn’t a good thing. Killing you isn’t going to be easy like this— and that’s the best way he can think of to escape. Grimmjow isn’t a coward, not by any means, but even he knows when getting the fuck out of a situation is for the best. He needs to break out, snap your neck, and leave wherever the fuck this place is behind before anything can get worse. 

It’s strange. You’re  _ human,  _ and yet, Grimmjow’s instincts are firing just the same as they would have when he was on four legs and staring down something that could have torn him apart with its claws. 

You reach for him. Grimmjow twitches. It’s  _ not  _ a flinch. He’d bite your fingers off if he could make his body respond the way he wants it to. Instead, he’s helpless to do anything but angle his head back and glare at you with all the indignant hatred he can muster under these circumstances. 

And then, your fingers find his jaw— thankfully on the side without the mask. Warm fingerprints trail up the sharp angle of bone, toward his ear, and up along his temple in a shockingly tender caress. 

His body shudders against his will. Touch is a threat. A hand too near means pain. You shouldn’t be in space like this, shouldn’t be close—

All it does is send little shocks from his skin all the way down to his spine. You trace that same path, up and down, a couple more times. Grimmjow keeps his eyes fixed on your face. There’s no trace of aggression or killing intent; just the same look of  _ wanting.  _ Your fingers slide back, dragging blunt nails through his hair. Grimmjow’s breath catches in his chest as his non-existent heart does a strange, sharp twist between his lungs. Your touch whispers against the blood-filled shell of his ear. 

“What... what‘re you... doin’?” he gets out. There’s supposed to be a lot more fury in the words, but Grimmjow’s throat isn’t working right. Speech doesn’t seem to want to come out. All his body seems to want to do is sink into the strange shockwaves flickering along his alighted nerves. 

“Pretty,” is your response. “Your eyes. Your hair. This.” You trace the line of his jaw once again. “Hollows are so, so pretty. I’m lucky to be able to touch you like this. I know I am. If you don’t push me, I’ll stay away from the parts that you won’t like.” As you say it, your gaze flickers down to Grimmjow’s belly for a fraction of a second. A chill fills his veins. 

Those implications come through loud and clear. Even in Grimmjow’s muddled head, he understands exactly what you’re implying. And... the thought of your hot, small fingers dragging against the inside of his Hollow hole almost makes him gag. He can feel the phantom sensation already; the feeling of claws digging in. Grimmjow opens his mouth, parts the teeth of his mask, then closes it again. He can’t think of a single defense. 

The instincts that kept him alive when he was weaker are painfully confused. The only things that the basest parts of Hollows know are things to eat and things that  _ will  _ eat. You fall into neither of these sides. 

Grimmjow tries to remember to breathe properly. You hum low and trace your fingers to the space under his chin. The skin there is soft and thin, and like this, Grimmjow couldn’t bring his Hierro up if he tried. Blunt nails drag against alerted nerves. Your touch is so, so gentle. 

And... it stays like that. You don’t venture any lower, don’t touch his throat, don’t try to make contact with the fragment of off-white bone gracing his cheek. For how close your fingers are to his face, Grimmjow feels like he should be trying to bite them off. However, whatever you’ve done to him means that  _ thinking  _ is a struggle, let alone gaining enough control of his body to snap down and take the digits off. He’s dizzy, weak, and helpless, and you don’t seem to be trying to hurt him for it in the slightest. 

By the time you’ve gotten your nails in his hair, scritching lightly against his scalp, Grimmjow may as well be in a trance. He can’t  _ move.  _ His head has fallen forward, limp-necked. You part his hair and rub back-and-forth little lines against his skin, and Grimmjow is  _ weak.  _ It should hurt, but there’s no pain to be found. Just endless, pressing contact. 

Eventually, you pull away. Your hand recedes, and in a point of shame that will haunt him, Grimmjow’s body instinctively leans after you. 

His nerves are buzzing. Every part of him is on fire with touch. 

“You’re good,” you say. “Very good. I’m glad I chose you.”

With a tender look in your eyes, you pull a couple of pills out of your pocket. They’re small and white, oval-shaped, and Grimmjow’s stomach sinks. That’s how you’re keeping him compliant. He’s fucking drugged. 

You press the pills to his lips. Grimmjow should  _ bite,  _ but his slack jaw won’t let him. He growls deep in his chest instead, even as you push the little pills between his lips. Even though he doesn’t want to, his body swallows on reflex alone. At least these don’t vanish halfway down. 

And slowly, Grimmjow feels himself slipping. The pills take effect in minutes. Grimmjow’s vision blurs once again. He wants to  _ scream.  _ This isn’t right. He’s the Sixth Espada, and yet, he’s sitting here while a human toys with him and pets him like some kind of animal. As he’s starting to drift, you run your fingers through his hair once more. Grimmjow’s breath hitches. Drugged as he is, it’s hard for him to think of anything but the soft shockwave that gentle touch brings. It feels good. He hates it. 

“Sleep. You’ll feel better if you do. Get some rest, please. I’ll be here when you wake up.” That last part is a threat, not a promise. Grimmjow swallows down bile and tries to pretend like next time, he’ll get free. 

. . . 

When he wakes, it’s to the touch of something against his lips.

Confusion hits him in a bursting wave, but Grimmjow’s body responds before he has time to think about it. His mouth opens on feeding-reflex... and something warm and salty hits his tongue. The sound that leaves Grimmjow’s throat isn’t one he’s proud of. It’s  _ food.  _

He swallows without thinking about it, choking the good thing down quickly before the taste can fade away. But instead of slipping away into nothingness, the weight of it slides down to his stomach while the not-water flavor lingers thickly against his tongue. That wasn’t Hollow meat. 

Grimmjow’s eyes flutter open in a mockery of what happened before. How long ago? He’s not sure. You’re sitting in front of him with a bowl of something steaming and good-smelling, a smile gracing your lips. He’s still chained. The drugs are still clogging his system. Grimmjow inhales deeply. He’s not out of this yet. There’s no chance to overpower you and get away. A part of him is still expecting pain and violence, but instead... 

“Eat. It’s human food. It’s good for you.”

Your soft smile is only matched by the dead look in your eyes. You scoop up another spoonful of broth and something else, then hold it out. 

And— Grimmjow would have liked to say that he has pride. However, for a creature who’s lived in a state of starvation for longer than it can remember, eating only things that taste like water and never fill its stomach or ease the ache, the offer of something solid and warm is impossible to resist. It smells so good. His gut clenches around the single bite inside. 

He eats willingly. The taste of salt and meat settles against the roof of his mouth at the same time that the texture of something not-meat clings to his teeth. Swallowing fills his throat with eat. One bite, then another, then one more. The permanent pain settled in Grimmjow’s abdomen spikes, then eases. Is this what fullness feels like? Is this what it’s like not to starve? For all he’s eaten, for every corpse he’s devoured, Grimmjow can’t remember a time where any of it brought any end to the empty hole of hunger he held. 

And you feed him. Spoon after spoon, until the entire dish is gone. Grimmjow breathes unsteadily and sharp. It’s  _ strange  _ to feel full. His gut feels heavy and stretched. The weight in his stomach is a comfort, unlike anything he’s ever known. Grimmjow, against his will,  _ shakes.  _

“Good boy,” is all you say. “That feels better, doesn’t it?” 

You set the dish down on the floor beside you. Grimmjow wishes he could lick it. Your hand moves toward his face again. 

Even though he flinches, you just find the sharp line of his jaw once again. Your fingers trace the same path as before. It feels just as good as it did, and this time, with a full belly and a strange sense of calm, Grimmjow doesn’t have it in him to resist. It’s the drugs. It has to be. There’s no way he’d ever act so tame if it wasn’t for something clouding his head and forcing it. You pet his chin and cheek until his eyes are going half-lidded. 

“I’m going to touch your mask,” you say next, then move to do exactly that. Grimmjow’s lungs spasm around a sound that might have been a yelp. He tries to jerk away, but the bindings and drugs mean that it doesn’t work. 

“N-No... Don’ you... fucking dare...” he spits. Mustering up the coherence to talk in anything other than a mumbled whisper is impossible. 

You don’t give any response but to trace the line of skin just under it. His body shudders all on its own. A spike of fear runs through him. There’s nothing your blunt nails and weak hands could really do to him, but instinct is a powerful thing. All his head can scream is that touch to that place will mean pain. That it’ll hurt worse than anything other than maybe your fingers finding the insides of the hole that even he can’t bear to touch for long. 

But contact comes to the underside of the bone in a gentle whisper, and no, there isn’t even a shred of pain. There’s a predatory sort of lust in your eyes as you trace over that part, but you don’t hurt him. Instead, you seem to be dead-set on being as tender as you can with it. With him. 

Slowly, you move up. You find the sharp, closed teeth. You run your touch over the ridges of bone and dips in its surface. Grimmjow bites his lip until he tastes blood and feels his chest heave. Every drag of your fingers makes him feel like someone attached a shock collar to his spine. It’s so much. It feels  _ good.  _ Even though, if he had a heart, it would be pounding in his chest, all Grimmjow can do is stay limp and lean into your hand. His eyes are crossing, rolling back. Your hands are so, so warm. No one’s ever touched this place before, and oh, it’s like nothing he ever thought. 

“I like Hollows,” you murmur. “I’ve always wanted to be close to one. You’re a good one, you know that? You’re strong, but your skin is soft and you’re nice and responsive. I’m glad I got to choose you.”

Despite the horrifying nature of your words, your voice is slow and gentle. It’s probably just the daze he’s in and the chemicals altering his brain, but Grimmjow doesn’t find the fury that he should. He just leans into your hand and pretends like he’s not as pathetic as he is. Not as  _ weak.  _

Your other hand goes to his hair all over again. The dual stimulation has Grimmjow’s chest heaving around a breath. It’s possible, he thinks, that he’s been just as starved for  _ this  _ as he was for meat. He laughs under his breath. What a ridiculous thought. He doesn’t like this. There’s no way he could. He’s just... drugged. Yeah. Unable to fight back, he closes his eyes. He’ll kill you, in the end. Just wait until you give him a chance. 


End file.
